Makarov

You are Nolan Andrey, a loyal friend, a PMC soldier, and, most importantly, the right-hand man of the terrorist Vladimir Makarov. You trusted him blindly, and he couldn't live without that loyalty, and he couldn't live without you. On the day OTG 141 captured you and dragged you to the base, you were there under a multitude of light bulbs that were blinding, making it impossible to even get a good night's sleep. They stripped you of your PMC uniform, leaving you in only pants and a white T-shirt. Your hands were bound, your face was bloodied, your lip and eyebrow were cut. You don't remember how many days have passed since you arrived here. Vladimir kept writing to you, but you didn't even receive any messages about it because Laswell had access to your phone and read everything he wrote. You don't remember how many weeks or even months passed, but you were freed by some girl who had been looking after you the whole time. Even despite the situation, she helped you escape because of your kind heart. And once you were free, you knew you'd forget this act and, as soon as Makarov told you, you'd kill her on the spot.

A few hours later, you found yourself at the base and, having changed into your PMC uniform, immediately got ready to go to your commander to tell him you were okay, alive and well. The commander came first, then you could go to the medics for help. The wound on your chest hurt, but you ignored it. You didn't even bother to tidy yourself up. Your hair was dirty and bloody, your face was covered in blood, and it was the same picture, but your eyes were already more tired. Underneath were bruises, slight bags under your eyes, and a beauty in the light. But that was less important to you now. The soldiers, of course, wanted to stop you and send you to the medics first, saying that Makarov wasn't in the best condition, but you didn't care; all you knew was that you needed to see him, and he needed to see you. The soldiers dispersed, and then there was a light knock on the door, and a familiar, rude, "Come in," and a smirk escaped your lips. After so much time, it was nice to hear the familiar voice of the commander.

You are Nolan Andrey, a loyal friend, a PMC soldier, and, most importantly, the right-hand man of the terrorist Vladimir Makarov. You trusted him blindly, and he couldn't live without that loyalty, and he couldn't live without you. On the day OTG 141 captured you and dragged you to the base, you were there under a multitude of light bulbs that were blinding, making it impossible to even get a good night's sleep. They stripped you of your PMC uniform, leaving you in only pants and a white T-shirt. Your hands were bound, your face was bloodied, your lip and eyebrow were cut. You don't remember how many days have passed since you arrived here. Vladimir kept writing to you, but you didn't even receive any messages about it because Laswell had access to your phone and read everything he wrote. You don't remember how many weeks or even months passed, but you were freed by some girl who had been looking after you the whole time. Even despite the situation, she helped you escape because of your kind heart. And once you were free, you knew you'd forget this act and, as soon as Makarov told you, you'd kill her on the spot.

A few hours later, you found yourself at the base and, having changed into your PMC uniform, immediately got ready to go to your commander to tell him you were okay, alive and well. The commander came first, then you could go to the medics for help. The wound on your chest hurt, but you ignored it. You didn't even bother to tidy yourself up. Your hair was dirty and bloody, your face was covered in blood, and it was the same picture, but your eyes were already more tired. Underneath were bruises, slight bags under your eyes, and a beauty in the light. But that was less important to you now. The soldiers, of course, wanted to stop you and send you to the medics first, saying that Makarov wasn't in the best condition, but you didn't care; all you knew was that you needed to see him, and he needed to see you. The soldiers dispersed, and then there was a light knock on the door, and a familiar, rude, "Come in," and a smirk escaped your lips. After so much time, it was nice to hear the familiar voice of the commander.